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Private Carrying Mountains

  • Thread starter Diarmuid Ua Duibhne
  • Start date
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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

Guest
September 28th || @Sansa Stark


The city was loud.

All around Diarmuid was noise. Voices rose and fell with distance, the clatter of doors slamming open and closed echoed resounded through the street, and even the roar of carriages drowned out any natural sounds the environment might have offered. While similar to Japan in the fact that this place was so noisy, it was still somewhat humbling of an experience to go through. After all, in Japan Diarmuid had not been able to go out very often. He had been restricted to Kayneth’s side, and beyond their initial battle at the wharf he had chosen to remain locked within his labyrinth of a hotel floor up until the church’s beseeching for Caster’s death. And while the grail had given him ample knowledge for the Japan of that era, here he did not have as much information to go off of. There were similarities, but those similarities were not identical.

Stopping in front of a bar, Diarmuid frowned. He knew he had a choice to make. Everyone he had spoken to thus far had made it quite clear that there was no way of returning home unless the god’s willed it. And Diarmuid knew that the God’s would never bend to another’s will save for their own. Thus he was left with the choice of what to do. To claim loyalty to his lord, even though he was not of this world, and hope that he might one day in the distant future reclaim his pride or to find himself a new master who he could follow undoubtedly from here on out? While a part of his heart cried out for the former, his mind told him it was only the latter which could see his wish fulfilled.

Stepping forward Diarmuid pushed the door of the bar open. His aim then was to gather more information on this place. He could not swear loyalty to just anyone. He knew after his experience with Kayneth he needed someone whose ideals and goals aligned more with his own, and he knew after Fionn that whoever he swore his lance to would need to be someone in a position of power within this world. Golden eyes swept across the bar then until finally landing on a few men who seemed likely able to answer his questions.

And so Diarmuid had hoped his afternoon could pass in relative peace.

If only.

If only he could be so lucky.

For it was quite unfortunate for him that the bar he so happened to choose had its fair share of women within it as well. Unable to resist his mark the women soon began to flock to him, the barmaids offering drink after drink as soon Diarmuid was swept away from the men to instead entertain the women. It really wouldn’t have been such a problem if they had been able to focus on his questions, but it seemed as though every time he spoke they seemed to barely register what he was actually saying. Then, just when he began to think things couldn’t get any worse, he heard the shout from across the bar.

Glancing up Diarmuid’s eyes land on a rather large group of unhappy men. Jealousy fills their expressions, many striding forward to grab at the women that Diarmuid could only assume were meant to be their significant others. Holding his hands up in a calming gesture, Diarmuid tried to laugh it off knowing it was already too late.

At least it was only a bottle they chose to hurl first. Some just jump straight to throwing the chairs or tables.

Not that it really mattered as Diarmuid soon found himself beset upon by the men hoping to end their problems by ruining his ‘pretty face’.

 
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Sansa Stark

Guest
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Sansa cares not for the ongoings of bars. Dirty and despicable places, filled with men filled with mead, and more oft than not mead made men worse than they already were. It filled their heads with silly fantasies, with rage and took away their self control, especially when it consumed all the time, without thought. She’d seen the way it made Robert Baratheon a beast, seen the way it had twisted Cersei Lannister further than she already was. She’d seen the way it bent her brother almost beyond repair.

Try as she might to take no notice of the sudden crashes and yells from the bar ahead of her in the street, she has a sinking feeling that, like usual, she will have to deal with the aftermath in some capacity. Lady growls at her heel, and just as Sansa turns to tell her direwolf to calm herself, glass shatters and bursts forth. She jumps back, eyes widened, a hand flying to her chest in surprise: a man, two men, had been thrown onto the street, followed by a third, leaping with ease through the opening.

She knows not what the quarrel is, but she can see the danger, see the threat. These strangers are still ready to fight, Sansa can feel what Lady wants to do, so she lets her: the wolf leaps forward in between the men in the mud and their attacker, knocking one back. She growls, a menacing and low rumble, bearing teeth sharp and deadly. Sansa doesn’t give thought to how she knew what her direwolf wanted, doesn’t give thought to how Lady did as she wished -- she steps forward, jaw set into a hard line.

It would be wise for you all to stop whatever this is immediately,” Sansa says, tone cold and stern. She walks up behind Lady, who takes a warning bite at one the men that dared to move to either run or try to fight her.

Their faces, startled, are enough to let Sansa she has enough control, and she turns to the man with dark hair, with sharp features that make her heart flutter in a way she doesn’t like. She takes a breath, slowly, to steady and calm herself.

What quarrel do you have with these men that would give you cause to throw them through a window so?

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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

Guest
September 28th || @Sansa Stark


Diarmuid did not want to admit that, to some extent, he was enjoying himself. A good and rowdy brawl was always entertainment in one way or another and back with the Fianna it was a convenient past time. Most of the time with the Fianna though any and all fights weren’t too serious, and they were always instantly stopped if things went too far or if Fionn was approaching. In this case though, the men coming at Diarmuid were completely serious, and Diarmuid found himself having to restrain himself to keep from unduly injuring the far weaker ruffians. Unfortunately self-restraint could only do so much in stopping them and with concern to the bar itself Diarmuid figured it was probably better to just take it outside.

So he did.

What he did not expect was that upon ‘exiting’ the bar he would find himself face to face with a rather large, and rather angry, wolf.

Diarmuid’s grin widened.

“It would be wise for you all to stop whatever this is immediately,”

A woman approached the group from the side, long dress trailing with every step. Unlike the others who filled this place her attire implied her origins to be similar to the knight’s own, although given the plethora of strange people that Diarmuid had met today he highly doubted she was from Ireland as well. Still though, there was something humbling and comforting in the sight of something familiar. Amusement dancing within golden eyes, he let his gaze trail across the woman whose command seemed to demand respect and attention before slipping to the side to assess the wolf and the two nearby men. The men he had previously propelled only seemed even more irritated at the fact that they had not only been bested, but had now been cowed by a woman and her beast. One stood with fists still clenched, eyes fixated on the wolf as if it was the only thing keeping him from pushing the woman to the ground so that he could return to claiming his dignity. The second was still on the ground, too frightened to move least the wolf attack once more.

“What quarrel do you have with these men that would give you cause to throw them through a window so?” Her question turns Diarmuid’s already bemused expression even more bright. His lip quirks into a broader grin, a hand falling to his waist while the other waves off her question. “Personally, I hold no quarrel. Perhaps the question would be better directed upon my aggressors?” His words are met by the men shouting, the second managing to stand as the third and the fourth of his assailants follow them outside. There are whispers behind him of a name, of her name he assumes, but he doesn’t catch the syllables as from behind the woman he could see the men making very slight gestures towards their companions.

“However as their pride have been bruised, I’d dare say they’d much enjoy the chance to finish this rather than converse.”

Just as he finished speaking the third moved to grab Diarmuid while the second twisted his jacket off to try and jam it within the wolf’s mouth. Whether or not he succeeded Diarmuid did not pause to see. Instead he was throwing his arm back, fist eliciting a cracking sound from the assaultor’s nose, before he was drawing a leg back to kick him into the fourth. The fourth barely managed to catch their companion before he dropped the now unconscious man and bolted. At the same time the first tried to assist the second with the wolf, but upon seeing their numbers dwindled instantly assessed his chances and quickly turned to flee as well.

“Now, you don’t strike me as a defender for this city, miss. Do you and your wolf make it a habit of patrolling these streets?”

As if nothing was the matter Diarmuid continued speaking, the knight ready to turn his inquiries onto the woman whose thus far lack of reaction to him and his curse prompted the knight to feel some hope that he could get actual guidance from her.
 
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Sansa Stark

Guest
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Sansa keeps equal attention on the man she’d addressed directly, and the men he’d thrown through the window. It becomes clear almost immediately that the men Lady is keeping at bay are incredibly outmatched: while they cower and puff their chests, this other man, with the easy grin and relaxed posture, seems absolutely unconcerned. Both parties equally irritate her but she refuses to show it on her face. Though, this one, as he waves and dismisses her question, is making it difficult to keep her expression neutral.

Pretty. He’s very pretty. The word comes to her as he speaks, and she hopes the flush to her cheeks looks as if it’s the cold, as if it’s her anger. She knows this type: charming, too handsome, and able to get away with anything because of it. Her eyes flicker as even more men come out of the bar, just as angry and ready to fight, then go right back to him, wondering what it was that angered these men so much. She is about to address the others on his suggestion, but the fighting once again breaks out.

Lady is a direwolf, and try as Sansa might, she could not keep the beast from acting in response to any threat that might hurt her owner. The poor men move to hurt her like she’s a common bitch, but what they’re met with is teeth snapping and their bones breaking -- thankfully, though, she does not tear the arm off, though her muzzle becomes wet with blood. Sansa has seen what happens to a mortal man when torn apart by dogs, and despite loathing that there’s a brawl happening in the street, she does not want to see that again now. These fools did not deserve such a fate, so she before they can try to do more damage to Lady, she says her name.

Lady, enough!” Sansa calls her off, to come back to her side, and when she turns her attention back to the pretty man, the fight is all but done: the two that had tried to hurt lady scurried off, one man unconscious in the mud, the last running away like a coward, too afraid to finish the fight or face whatever it is he thinks Sansa is going to do. While she looks trouble, slightly winded from adrenaline, his voice still holds an easiness to it like he hasn’t just gotten done with a fight.

His face, handsome, irritates her, and the way he addresses her, as if she herself is someone common, irritates her. He looks to be a knight, but for the moment she cares not: she's known that being a Knight does not make that person honorable, doesn't not make the person good. She lets her expression become even bitter still.

I’m the assistant governor of this city. My direwolf and I tend to dislike when people incite violence. So give me a good reason to not have you taken into custody for assaulting this man” - Sansa glances down to the unconscious man - “right now.

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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

Guest


The expression upon which the woman sends his way is quite unlike any other that has ever been directed upon the knight. The furrow of her brow told him she could feel his curse, could feel the impact of looking at him, yet despite it the expression her face wore was as though she were being forced to swallow something repugnant. Perhaps it was the way Fionn had used to look at him when Diarmuid’s back was turned, it certainly was the way Kayneth sometimes looked at him when Sola-Ui was too forward with the servant, but it was never an expression that a woman had ever worn before him. It makes Lancer pause, makes him consider his words and actions far more than her introduction could.

After holding his hands up in a defensive gesture for a brief moment Diarmuid then bowed deeply towards the woman. The one bound by servitude to others could feel the command and power in her voice and were she the one upon whom Diarmuid’s services were pledged there was little doubt that he would have been on his knees within seconds. Instead though the knight keeps his head bowed, not meeting the woman’s keen and sharp gaze as he speaks.

“I can offer nothing, save for my explanation. You may offer judgement as you see fit.”

To be punished for fighting, no matter who the root cause was, was something to be expected if it was done without the permission of those in higher authority or if it was done outside of the proper facilities. Rowdiness was tolerated to a limit, but Diarmuid could acknowledge his limit had been exceeded the moment physical property of the establishment’s furniture became damaged (even if he had attempted to limit it without injuring the aggressors).

“I am the first spear of the Knights of Fianna, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne.”

Head still down Diarmuid continued.

“I have been cursed for as long as I can remember where any woman who gazes upon my face falls in love unwillingly with it.”

Diarmuid’s head tilted up, ever so slightly, in order to gaze at Sansa once more – knowing she would feel the tug of the charm magic even if she could resist it.

“While gathering information concerning this world, these men grew jealous of the attention’s their partners were giving to me. When they attacked me, I chose to defend myself.”

Straightening back up, Diarmuid glanced briefly at the Direwolf before returning his gaze to Sansa. It wasn’t that he was frightened of the creature, but rather curious. He had never seen someone tame a ferocious beast in such a manner before. “If you would prefer I turn myself in I would be willing.” Walking over to the unconscious man, Diarmuid leaned over to grab him in order to move the man out of the street and instead safely against a wall. “I would just like to humbly request permission to pursue the ones who escaped in order to ensure their turning themselves in for their part in this quarrel.”
 
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Sansa Stark

Guest
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The change in his posture and his manner of speech is as immediate as it is noticeable. Sansa notes it, and calms her slow building rage, as he bows to her, averting his gaze from hers. Perhaps her immediate reaction and judgement had not been the correct one. This man begins to emulate the aura of a knight and his words confirm it: in whatever world he had come from, he had been one. He tells her his name and she repeats it, mouths it silently to herself. He still doesn’t raise his gaze to hers, and she almost wants to tell him to rise. Almost.

His next admission all at once is believable and impossible to believe. It makes sense, gives reason to the way her heart pounds when she does see his face, gives ample reason for strangers to suddenly attack him. She despises that she’s flipping so easily, and has half a mind thinking that it’s this curse he speaks of that is convincing her to side with him. However, when he does finally glance up to her, her blue eyes meet his, not wanting to cower in the face of whatever magic has been placed upon him.

It’s startling. Though she doesn’t mean to be rude, she quickly glances away to get rid of the unsettling feeling of falling in love without her own permission. Slowly she tries to look upon his face, only looking at it for a few moments at a time. She finally finds her voice, tucking a few fallen strands of her hair behind her ears.

“Ser Diarmuid, if what you say is true, then you were merely acting out of self-defense,” she says, finally using the proper title, watching carefully as he scoops up the unconscious man to gently set him upright against the wall of the bar. “I have… reason to believe you. Though, please, there’s no need for you chase those menaces down. We have city guards to dispatch and find them, and I assure you that they will be fined for disturbing the peace.

Sansa looks up into his face when he walks back to her, and offers her own small curtsy. “My name is Sansa Stark, Ser. This is my direwolf, Lady. I suppose it means something that she did not turn her attentions to you, but to the others.

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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

Guest


There is a moment, a brief moment, when Diarmuid chanced a glance up. The moment, while short, seemed to stretch for an eternity when blue eyes met golden. To others the gaze might have seemed cold, distant even, yet for the knight it was anything but. Rather than distant he’d have claimed they were simply strong. Resolute. It was the type of gaze that spoke volumes while her words said little. What iciness she tried to express within those bright, blue hues was simply a backdrop to the fire within. Her eyes spoke of a strength nurtured by years if struggle, and it was the sort of gaze that the knight felt compelled to bend his knee to.

“Ser Diarmuid, if what you say is true, then you were merely acting out of self-defense,” Her gaze doesn’t meet his anymore, a thought was almost disappointing as Diarmuid approached her. It would have been disappointing were she not still speaking to him. Her voice wasn’t the bright sort. She did not speak like Grainne, as though each day were a joy and each passing moment a blessing. Like her gaze she spoke like a woman who had suffered. A woman used to picking her words carefully, choosing the ones which would most benefit her at that time. He wondered then who this woman was, and how she came to cross his path.

“My name is Sansa Stark, Ser. This is my direwolf, Lady. I suppose it means something that she did not turn her attentions to you, but to the others.”

Her cursty was a practiced gesture – short and concise. Just like her voice. Just like her gaze. He was beginning to learn that when it came to one Sansa Stark she did not care for a masquerade. Any and all shows were needed to enforce her own strengths, her own power and control over the moment.

“I am relieved to hear that, frøken. Both you and Lady have my gratitude.”

Diarmuid risks taking a step closer, his gaze centered upon Sansa’s face. For a moment he could see her eyes waver, and - despite the displeasure it brings him – he finds himself forced into admitting the effect his curse must be having upon her. It was a disappointing realization, given how much he had already gathered about this women. He had heard of the power the governor’s office held here, and even if she were not the governess herself, to be involved in the city as she clearly was had been enough for him to ponder for a short moment if she might be someone worth investigating and approaching to pledge himself to. But if his curse was affecting her, he was certain it would continue to do so. And at this point Diarmuid was weary of the women upon whom his curse affected. The only positive thing seemed to be that unlike Grainne, unlike Sola-Ui, Sansa seemed to be trying to resist it. She at least did not seem comfortable with it which was better than nothing.

“Still, retributions will need to be made.”

Obviously he cannot pay for the damages though.

“I will come tomorrow to help with repairs.” He pauses, gaze still fixated on Sansa’s for a moment, before daring to ask-

“Frøken Stark, assuming stopping bar fights is not the bulk of your job as assistant governor, in this world, in what ways do you seek to help others if you could?” Diarmuid knew the question seemed out of the blue, so he offered a reassuring smile if he could. “You do not have to answer if you do not wish. I am merely curious about the powers which run this city.”

 
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Sansa Stark

Guest
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Sansa cannot help the way she’s taken with him, can’t help but see the slippery slope that letting her guard down and giving in to whatever charm - or curse - has been placed upon his skin would lead to. She tries as much as she can to resist, the displeasure of feeling helpless to him the thing keeping her from fully, completely giving in. She’s no mage, however, and magic has a cruel way of working.

He calls her ‘Froken’ and steps even closer to her. She doesn’t know this word, but he puts it in front of her name like a title, an honorific so she lets it slide for the time being. And though her first instinct is to step back, something keeps her feet grounded in their place, keeps her gazing at him. She cannot tell if his insistence of righting the wrongs done to the bar is impressive, is an act of honor that she truly appreciates, or if it is this charm working its way into her heart. Nonetheless, she finds it relieving to have a knight that would do what is right, despite it meaning that he’ll have to do mundane, manual labor.

That would be greatly appreciated, Ser,” Sansa says calmly, praying to the Old Gods that her expression stays as neutral as it normally is, “I will see to it that the Governor’s office sends the proper funds to help as well. It would be in our interest to keep the businesses in this city thriving.

His next question interrupts her thoughts, whatever it is that she is going to say next. So far removed from the topic at hand is the question that it takes her a moment of wordlessly staring at him before it finally registers. “I’m helping run the city,” she says painly, searching his expression for an ulterior motive. She doesn’t find it, however, and only sees just how beautiful he is, sees how his eyes reflect gold and kindness -- she swallows and finally pulls her eyes from his.

People need help. People need protection, need justice, need food,” Sansa continues, trying to find her words, “They need homes to stay safe in, Ser. I work long days to see that they get that. It is, afterall, the duty of those tasked with leading. I hope that answer is satisfactory.” She cannot help the bite the last sentence holds, though she feels her expression softening as she glances back to him.

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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

Guest


Were this any other situation Diarmuid might have enjoyed the brief moment of shock that he had placed Sansa within. Striking her speechless, he found, was quite an entertaining moment. It was the first time since their meeting, in fact, that she actually looked at him for longer than just a few seconds. Not to mention the first time she actually gazed at him with an expression other than taciturn sternness. Her eyes were open, confusion and perplexity - perhaps even a hint of distrust, lingered within those blue hues as Diarmuid met her gaze unflinchingly. “I’m helping run the city,” There it is again. Within seconds her eyes drop once more, and Diarmuid loses the brilliance of her gaze. He knew in that moment his curse must have been having an effect upon her. Cursing within his mind, Diarmuid drew his head back, one hand rising to press against his cheek as if he wished by covering the love spot he could hinder the magicks, but he knew he could never be so lucky.

“People need help. People need protection, need justice, need food. They need homes to stay safe in, Ser. I work long days to see that they get that. It is, afterall, the duty of those tasked with leading. I hope that answer is satisfactory.”

Diarmuid’s eyes flicker towards Sansa once more, amusement dancing within the brilliant gold as her expression softens towards him. Curse or not, she seemed to be of able mind. She seemed to understand that he had not made the curse up, and was actively resisting it. If only Sola-Ui might have been of the same mind. He wondered then, just how long Sansa could resist? Until he could find a means of suppressing it around her? Until he could find a way to serve her?

“And you, frøken?”

He speaks the words like a question, his head tilting to the side as he dropped his hand from his cheek and gazed unflinchingly towards Sansa. “Could I be of assistance to you?” A pause, in which Diarmuid chooses his words. “A knight lives to serve.” To serve a king. To serve the king’s people if needed. Bowing his head once more, Diarmuid placed a hand over his heart if only to show the severity of his promise as he continued. “You have aided me, and allowed me the chance to clear my name in relation to this affair. Allow me to stand behind you as you work to better this land.” Another pause as Diarmuid thought his words over. “I can and will do all that you ask of me, if you will allow me the chance to serve you, Lady Sansa.” As long as she could resist his curse, in the brief time Diarmuid had known Sansa he could tell at least one thing. She was an honorable sort, who he was certain he would not regret pledging his lances to.

 
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Sansa Stark

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She notes the hand he brings up to his face to cover beauty mark and for a moment wonders if that is what holds the magic, wonders exactly what kind of cruel fate it is to never wonder if those around you, flattering you, truly love you. Sansa, in her own way, understands this, a lesson learned young and early that love does not exist, not for her. But she cannot dwell, refuses to think of such things in the middle of the street with a stranger, when she needs to be focusing on the repairs for the bar.

Once again, his actions render her speechless.

A knight lives to serve.

Sansa gets flashes of Brienne kneeling before her in the snow, pledging herself to her, just as she had to her mother. An image of honor, an image of safety, and it wrenches at Sansa’s heart. This Diarmuid isn’t Brienne, doesn’t know her and the things she’s suffered until this point, and the pride that she had felt at the moment that Brienne had offered her services to her isn’t present now. Perhaps this is how it will be, from now on, accepting knights into her service. The pride and the relief, the vows… it feels empty.

Yet, she cannot bring herself to deny this man. He is of a good sort, Sansa can see it behind the playful gleam of his eyes. She closes her eyes and sighs, hand reaching down to find the soft fur of Lady’s head. A moment is taken to scratch there, a tactic only to spend time as she finds the correct thing to say the Diarmuid.

Her lips have gone dry, so ever so slightly she wets them before speaking. “You would pledge yourself to me so willingly, so easily, Ser?” She tries to imagine him following her, just as Brienne had, a protective shadow, though she cannot imagine it properly. She cannot imagine it without that charmed face of his making her heart wrench, a dangerous hold he would have over her. A dangerous power to give a knight.

However… She looks upon his face once more, her lips parting slightly once more.

Very well.

She accepts, not knowing why, not what it means, not knowing how things will change in the coming days with him at her side.

Ser Diarmuid,” Sansa says, not bothering to say the proper words, the proper vow, for fear of how confused she is, “It would be an honor.

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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne

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There is hesitation on her face, hesitation which causes Diarmuid to feel the claw of anxiety in his stomach. It was the same sensation he felt everytime Sola-Ui defended him, the same anxiety he felt the moment Grainne confessed her intentions. The question of whether or not she would accept him, accept him for who he was - not what he could be in their imaginations, lingered on his mind as he waited.

“Very well.”

However, the change upon his face at those words were like night and day. With such a simple statement Diarmuid lit up. Eagerness was pressed upon his expression as he instantly dropped to one knee before her. Her next words were strange though, syllables stringed together in a mock acceptance of his place before her. It caused Diarmuid’s brows to furrow, confusion lingering in his eyes as he contemplated what her words meant. It wasn’t the proper vow. It wasn’t the way it always went. Even with Kayneth he had been given a chance to properly pledge himself, and for his lord to state his own desires and expectations with the knight. He was the servant, and Kayneth was his lord. But with Sansa their connection felt too brief, almost stale despite the praise in her words.

Diarmuid hesitated, uncertain how to match her words at first, before attempting his own. “Then I will pledge myself to you, Mistress Stark.” His fist clenches against the cement, not daring to lift his head as he continues. “My lances are yours to use as you see fit.” It paled to the vows he had once declared upon joining the fianna, but he was quickly discovering Sansa did not care for the bravado. Thus, Diarmuid made due. “Even if I do not appear near merely call my name, and I will be at your side.” Without the seals granted to master’s there was no way for Diarmuid to link himself to Sansa. If this were the war he would know the moment Sansa needed him without her even having to speak his name. He would be able to tell the danger she was in and its imminency. Without the seals though, Diarmuid was practically a normal man in that regard. He could attune himself to her magical energy to a degree, to at least know when she calls for him, but beyond that he was incapable.

Not daring to rise without permission, DIarmuid glanced once more at Sansa. “If you are to serve as my mistress, there are other things you must know.” Still kneeling Diarmuid began to explain his own abilities, the phantasm’s hidden within his lances and their capabilities, as well as his own strengths and weaknesses. Of course, were this a master of his time she would have been able to tell such basics things with simply a glance at him. In Sansa’s case, Diarmuid could only judge this to be the best course of action.

“If you do not have any need of me, to save energy I will vanish. But no matter what, if you call for me, I will reappear by your side, my lady.”

 
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Sansa Stark

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He is on his knees, though Sansa sees and feels his hesitation to do so. Once again she sees Brienne instead of him, kneeling and offering her safety. This man, this knight, does not make her chest swell with pride upon seeing him knelt before her. Though she feels her heart pull, her heart tug, she does not feel the same magic, the same meaning behind his pledge to her. Sansa looks down to him, searching for words yet finding none as he explains his magic to her.

A simple call of his name and he will appear at her side, a simple dismissal and he vanishes. She knows not what kind of magic, what kind of sorcery allows him to do so, but since seeing Bran skin change, since hearing him speak of past events, future events, as he had been there, Sansa knows that what he says is true. This arrangement could be fine, she supposes, wondering what sort of use she’d have of a knight with a lance. Decoration? Her own personal, one man, Queensguard? She dashes the last thought from her mind: she’ll never be a queen in this world.

Diarmuid finishes speaking, and Sansa closes, slowly opens her eyes. “Please rise, Ser.” She looks into his eyes once more as he does rise, searching for something, finding nothing still. It scares her, to feel such a pull to him, to feel as if she is gravitating toward him. So, in order to go about her day, to leave this behind her she decides to test if his magic works.

You are dismissed, Ser Diarmuid Ua Duibhne.

As he disappears, gone from her sight, she feels relief. Feels utterly alone.

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